Particles of Change
by riotproof
Summary: After the incident in the Red Room, Anastasia is ready to move on with her decidedly unglamorous life, sans Christian. Taylor provides more than a helping hand. (Anastasia/Taylor, set post-Book 1, rated M for the epilogue & C/OMC missing scene)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The knocking rouses me. I'm on the couch and the floor is strewn with boxes still unopened, a labyrinthine route I struggle through with only minor injury when I whack my knee against the coffee table. To say I'm dragging my feet would be an understatement, but I unlatch the door without preamble. I'd ask who it is, but Kate has a key and I'm not expecting company. I'm thinking neighborly visit, cop or maybe a serial killer. That last is a product of last night's movie marathon session of gruesome thrillers which have me half convinced that someone, somewhere is plotting my demise.

I don't expect it's _him_. After yesterday's catastrophe, I don't want to think of him again.

"Miss Steele." I recognize my caller immediately. He's still the same six foot, broad shouldered behemoth who's been tailing me since this whole madness began, only for once he looks contrite instead of scary. "I, uh, is this a bad time?"

I shake my head. "No, Taylor. Not at all. Come in." I tell him to mind his step. The thicket of freshly unpacked hardcovers means lots of sharp corners to snag at his pant leg. "What can I do for you?" And then, before I can stop myself, I hear myself adding: "If this is about Christian-"

"Mr. Grey doesn't know I'm here," he says, a rushed confession that I'm half tempted to disbelieve.

My arms fold across my belly and I realize I'm still wearing my faded pajamas and a pair of bunny slippers I may or may not have liberated from Kate's wardrobe. "Okay... Why not?" It's a point worth investigating. Not only do I not get visits like this one very often, but I've broken up with a grand total of one man in my life and it's a little unsettling to find myself staring up at his loyal bodyguard, a man who, without straining very hard, probably knows about sixteen ways of murdering me with a back issue of Cosmo. Hollywood statistics probably support that worrying thought. I try to stand there with some degree of self-confidence, but it's a hard sell.

Taylor hitches his shoulders into a slow shrug. "I wanted to check in," he admits. "Last night you seemed..."

"Certifiable?" I venture.

"-I was going to say upset." Taylor smiles, but it's with an edge. He knows more than he should, I realize and for some reason that galls me. I've had enough of being judged, shoved, bent to suit other people's will. I refuse to feel ashamed for what happened with Christian.

"Thank you for your concern," I snap, working up the nerve to grip the doorknob. "But you don't have to worry. I'm not your problem anymore, right?"

I don't know what I'm expecting him to say. Maybe _you were never a problem_ or _my boss is a lunatic who made the biggest mistake of his life_, but all I get is another Taylor-patented shrug and a heavy sigh. "If it makes you feel any better, you didn't do anything wrong. Mr. Grey is - he's had trouble in love before. He's a good man."

"Yeah, I got that when he started tracking my cellphone. Super nice of him." It's hypocritical of me, but with the rose tinted lenses of romance safely removed, I've been looking back over the course of our short-lived relationship and feeling vindictive. I wonder if Taylor is here to make sure I don't run my mouth to Kate or anyone else; I know I could ruin a man's reputation, but Christian Grey is powerful enough that he doesn't need to resort to intimidation to keep me quiet.

He knows where my mother lives. And just like that, my foolish bravado dies a quick and sudden death.

Taylor glances around the apartment, as if for the first time he's noticed the pigsty into which he's landed. "You look like you're busy. I should probably let you unpack... There any good breakfast places around here? I'm dying for a cup of coffee."

It's a pretty swift one-eighty, but he looks so earnest that I don't feel comfortable rebuffing him with a shrug of my own. Then again, it's pretty well established that I'm a horrible judge of character. "I think there's a coffee shop just around the corner that sells donuts... I've never been." Once again, I'm reminded that this isn't really my apartment, that both location and amenities were negotiated by Kate's father in our name. And I'm the one bringing drama home and keeping his daughter up all night. Guilt slices me to the quick.

"Alright," Taylor says softly. "Well, it was nice seeing you again. Take care..." He steps closer, doing this weird sidestep thing to avoid a stack of books tilted about as precariously as the Tower of Pisa, and I see Christian's first editions piled reproachfully on top of the stack. I retain a sliver of hope that he might kick them down, but for a big guy, Taylor proves pretty agile. The tower survives, glaring at me with Mordor's fiery wrath.

-maybe it's time I got out of the house, too. Anthropomorphizing inanimate objects is dangerously close to the fine line between sanity and the other thing. Besides, I can bring Kate back a Frappuccino; the first step in the long road towards buying back my tattered pride.

"Would you mind some company?" I blurt out. My rational mind catches up only a half-second later.

Taylor looks as taken aback as I feel, but if he's come here on his free time, there can be no conflict of interest. I swear to myself I won't even think of speaking of the unmentionable things that went on in Christian's apartment. Frankly, I'm ashamed of how I acted, of having Taylor and Christian walk me to the car like some trouble-making student being escorted off school premises. I hold little hope of making up for it over breakfast with Taylor. Still, he smiles and says "sure" and I don't know how to back out once he's taken me up on the offer.

"Let me get changed." PJs are still acceptable pre-noon-wear while you're in college, but I'm a young graduate with a diploma in my pocket and a real, grown-up job. I should probably make an effort.

Despite looking a little taken aback, Taylor says nothing of my pencil skirt-and-dress-shirt attempt. I conclude something about me must be off, or that he's used to seeing me with a bit more mascara running down my cheeks, and spend the short walk to the coffee shop trying to catch my reflection in shop windows. The skirt is more than respectable, but I still wonder if I'm showing too much leg. It's just that after last night, I'm feeling less than enthused about trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans. They tend to chafe.

A car whizzes by us, the top down, wind mussing up the driver's hair. The sound isn't that of a honk. It catches me short. "Did he just-"

"Men are pigs?" Taylor offers at my side. He walks with his hands at his sides, a kind of innate confidence obvious in the leisurely strut.

I flush. "They don't usually whistle at me."

"Oh, he wasn't," Taylor assures me. "Seattle's a pretty diverse place, you know."

Momentary shock blinds me and I realize, a half second too late, that he's making fun of me. I can't help the urge to slap his arm. "He was not whistling at you," I insist. "I'm pretty sure. Not that you don't look like guys could be whistling at you... I mean." I don't know what I mean and we're in the middle of the street and I'm balking. The last time I implied someone was gay, I accidentally insulted one of the richest, most volatile men in the country. Only I didn't so much imply as outright ask and I can think of more adjectives to describe Christian than 'volatile,' none of them very flattering.

I'm waiting for Taylor to flash that incredulous, affronted look I've become so familiar with since Christian walked into my life (or rather, since I fell face-first through his office door), but it doesn't come. His massive shoulders shake as he laughs. "No harm done, Miss Steele. You're plenty good-looking, too," he says and holds the door open for me as we enter the coffee shop.

"Hey, Taylor?"

"Yes?"

"Think you can call me Anastasia?" I'm not his boss's - whatever. I don't want to be treated as such.

He smiles. "Sure thing. It's nice to meet you, Anastasia."

My palm is small in his, but I welcome the fierce clasp. He doesn't pump my fingers as though he's trying to prove a point; there's no machismo here. I think maybe breakfast isn't such a terrible idea after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

It's just breakfast. It's just letting my ex-boyfriend's bodyguard buy me coffee and a donut. It's agreeing, stupidly, to meet him for dinner in two days. I don't ask why two days - I assume it's got something to do with Christian's schedule - or venture to suggest we shouldn't meet again. The truth is: I want to. It occurs to me that there are few people I can talk to about the _Incident_, and fewer still who'll understand. Taylor may not have all the pieces, but he can puzzle out the big lines of my monumental failure.

When I tell Kate about it, she's confused: "But what happened to Christian?"

"Not in the picture anymore," I say, struggling for nonchalance. "So I was thinking I should take you shopping..."

Kate isn't so easily deterred: "He broke up with you?" Her outrage is only rivaled by her shock. I don't know if it's because she thinks well of me or is naturally suspicious of men who might like me - I hope it's the former - but I feel compelled to put my arms around and tell her it's okay. It's for the best.

I don't. It would be a lie. "We weren't a very good fit," I hedge and shrug my shoulders. "He's rich and knowledgeable and I'm... really not."

Kate takes my hands in hers and leads me to the couch. We spent the night watching gory movies; she can't possibly think I still need coddling. "If he did something-"

"Kate!"

"No, listen." The pressure of her fingers on mine turns rough. "I just want you to know I'm here, okay? You can talk to me... And my dad knows Grey, so you don't have to be afraid of repercussions. We've got your back."

Something in my chest clenches painfully. I think it's my heart, but hope against it: the last time that happened to Ray, we ended up visiting the ER. "What," I ask Kate, "did I ever do to deserve you?"

"You were a nun in a past life," she answers, deadpan. "But I'm serious. You know I'm serious, right?"

I've only ever seen Kate this earnest when she's arguing about the Kashmir or deforestation in the Amazon. I nod my head and stray curls fall free from my ponytail.

Her expression morphs right before my eyes, concern transfigured into amusement. "Oh-em-gee!"

"What?" I'm not a big fan of internet-lingo, if only because I feel like I'm always catching up. (I was still writing essays by hand when Kate got her first smartphone; they say opposites attract.)

"You're primping."

"No, I'm not," I scoff. "I just... wanted to look nice for tonight." It's been three days. The pain has dulled to a low murmur, into the kind of ache I get when I've been working out more than I should, and I can sit down without needles shooting up my spine again. Taylor's delay has served me well.

Kate smiles knowingly. "Right, okay." She stretches back on the couch, fishing the remote out from under my favorite afghan. "Well, don't let me keep you, Miss-I've-got-a-date. You still need to do the other side."

"I did!" My hand comes up to tug absently at the curls. "Are they coming undone already? Ah, darn it..." I shuffle slowly off the couch, aware that I'm fighting a losing battle; there's a reason I never bothered trying to scorch my hair into impossible shapes and that's because it refuses to obey. My body has always been mutinous at the best of times.

"Where is he taking you, anyway?" Kate asks from the living room. "And do I need to scout out the place first?"

Even with the TV going in the background, I can hear her ominously powering up the computer. She's a woman with a mission and for once her show of force makes me feel safe. "Actually, I don't know... Is it wrong I'm hoping for a fast food joint?"

"Very," Kate tells me, but I know I'm forgiven when she comes help me decide what to wear.

Taylor is prompt. He doesn't show up in a stretch limo and he doesn't look fazed when Kate comes out to shake his hand. "Have her back by eleven," I hear her call behind us. "And do everything I would!"

The door closes on her grin and my abject humiliation. "I'm so sorry about that. She's very-"

"Nice?" I wonder if I'm supposed to mind this thing Taylor does where he doesn't let me finish my own sentences, but I realize I've been doing it, too.

"The roles are usually reversed," I explain as Taylor leads me down to the curb. There are no cars parked out front. Only a motorcycle of indeterminate make, the kind I usually see rumbling past when I'm in the car. It looks very cool.

Taylor hands me a helmet and I'm suddenly relieved I had the foresight to wear jeans and boots. I almost look the part. "So would it be shocking if I said I never rode one of these before?"

"Most people haven't." It's a 1940s Crocker, he tells me. Not a Harley-Davidson, as I initially thought and not an Indian. This, apparently, means the bike is in a class all of its own. Who am I to disagree?

I stand there holding the helmet for a few panicked moments, wondering if I should, if it's safe, if I'm going to end up scattered all over the tarmac in a gruesome mix of steel and viscera while they struggle to identify me by my teeth. The gentle pressure of Taylor's hand on my elbow brings me out of snowballing anxiety. "If you want, I can call a cab." His expression is so open, like he'll happily oblige if I asked him to.

This is dinner with a friend who just happens to be a guy. It's nothing I haven't done before.

"Let's go," I decide and anchor my hands at Taylor's sides. His leather jacket is cool beneath my fingertips, but that's not unpleasant. I try not to think about the last time I had a guy between my legs and almost succeed; Christian isn't allowed to occupy my thoughts anymore. He lost that privilege after he - after we - But I've decided I'm not going to dwell.

The engine shakes to life beneath me, a loud bellow in a quiet street, and I clench my thighs around Taylor's hips. I can smell the vague spicy scent of his cologne and the crisp copper-penny aroma of the bike. For some reason, it makes me think of Seattle in the rain: I realize I'm yearning for something normal in a string of days that have been anything but. We drive north for a while, then over bridges where the salt-scent of the rivers is drowned by the ever-present miasma of gasoline. My hair whips against my shoulders, all my hours of arduous work undone.

So Kate was right; so I'd been primping. It's not like it matters now.

I'm glad to stop, at last, though I don't recognize the district I've been brought to. Taylor grins as I tug off my helmet. "I've been told I shouldn't spring the whole bike thing on my dates..."

"Do I look like some exotic bird nested in my hair?" He doesn't have to say it. I shove my purse into his hands and quickly tame the disaster. "There. Better?"

Taylor hands me my handbag with a smile. He's quick to laugh, something I didn't realize about him when he was ferrying me back and forth from the Escala at Christian's pleasure. I can't help the thought any more than I can manage to conceal a smile of my own as we step into a seaside eatery the likes of which I know Ray would enjoy. "It's not the Heathman, I'll admit, but wait until you taste the food," Taylor insists. Is that worry drawing his lips tight? I feel a flash of empathy.

"Oh, believe me, I know all about judging a book by its cover." I think of Tess and the first editions I have at home. It's not a subject I want to bring up. I'm surprised to find I feel at ease in my black tee and white blazer - maybe even overdressed. The impulse to glance around me and size up the competition is conspicuous in its absence. I blame it on Taylor keeping his eyes on me as we're seated.

"Would you like something to drink?" the waitress asks us. "Champagne?"

I half expect Taylor to offer me a bottle of Cristal, but he only shakes his head. "Only water for me. But Miss Steele - sorry, Anastasia, you should order whatever you'd like."

"Alright, I will." My eyes scan the wine card without alighting on any names, familiar or otherwise. "A Coke?"

The waitress writes it down on a paper notepad. "Coming right up. And if I may make a suggestion, you should try the Penn Cove mussels. Chef stir-fries them in Tabasco sauce." She winks at us before scampering off to attend to other patrons.

The restaurant is too small to be empty and too noisy to give me room for awkward silence. I cock my head at Taylor. "Are you being a good boy and staying sober tonight for my sake?"

"Is that why you're only drinking a soda?"

I smile. "After the past week, I think I need to take it easy." And just like that, the elephant is back in the room, sitting at our table for two and refusing to be ignored. My fault, my mess to clean up. "How is he, Taylor?" I ask, sheepish.

There's a fair chance I won't have to clarify who I mean; especially in public, the name Christian Grey tends to turn heads. I'm not disappointed: "He'll be okay," Taylor answers, if somewhat evasively. _Okay_ is better than _depressed and suicidal_. It's not _dating happily_, either, but this is Christian Grey we're talking about. The second coming is more likely to happen than a genuine, pleased smile that isn't tinged with some kind of ulterior motive.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I brought him up, but..."

"I understand," Taylor assures me. "It doesn't bother me if you need to talk. Never easy to end a relationship, right? Whatever people might tell you. But as long as you're sure you made the right call..."

It's my turn to interrupt: "I'm sure," I tell him. I know I'm smiling and I know it's inappropriate, but every great feat begins with a burst of effort. "Honestly, what Christian needs and what I can offer are two separate things. I guess I could've handled it better, but it's what it is. Life goes on."

"Give yourself time. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty." Taylor huffs out a sigh, shaking his head in dismay. "And now that I've run up the tally on meaningless platitudes, how about we order? I'm thinking muscles-and-Tabasco." Besides being clearly farcical, his efforts to scrutinize the menu with deep and pressing interest startle a laugh out of me.

"Why not," I echo, "let's live dangerously." Coke and Tabasco sauce are a far cry from the luxurious concoctions Christian would arrange for us, but that doesn't make this experience lesser. The thought stabs through me: this is how relationships normally work. This is what I wanted from Christian.

Taylor proves to be an easy conversationalist. I know this already after breakfast the other day, but this time we seem to have skipped the gauche beginnings and entered straight into the realm of easy banter. "...and Sophie said: I was upset when I found out Santa didn't exist, Daddy, and I know it's hard, but you have to face reality." He pauses for effect. "She's eight years old."

"I didn't even know you had a daughter," is all I can think of to say. I imagine a younger Taylor, girl-shaped but with the same full lips and stern brow. "Not that I'm all that surprised she knows her mind. She'll be schooling boys left and right when she's a little older. And good for her."

"Yeah, in the meantime, she isn't letting me get away with anything." Taylor pries another clam from its shell. "Her mom and I divorced a few years back."

"I'm sorry..." The subject isn't unfamiliar to me. I know what it's like to have a family divided.

But Taylor stops me short. "Her mom fell in love with another woman. Divorcing was the best decision we ever made as a couple... Well, after having Sophie."

"Do you have a pic, by any chance?" He produces one from his wallet and I discover I wasn't far from in my predictions. From the glossy photograph, Sophie's staring at the camera with a suspicious, serious moue. Beside her sits a beautiful woman, hair done up in braids. She's hard at work dressing Barbie into an astronaut suit.

"You can scroll back and forth," Taylor puts in. "I have a couple of her with her mom, too."

"Are you sure you should be putting your phone in my hands?" I ask, grinning as my thumb dances over the touch screen. "Who knows other secrets I might discover..."

He grins, clinking his glass of water against my Coke. "Don't you think it would be easier just to ask?"

"Easier, sure," I scoff, "but where's your sense of mystery? Of suspense?"

"I'm a pretty straightforward guy, Anastasia." He shifts in his seat, hands joining over the table top. "And since I just bragged about it, I'll put my money where my mouth is. Here goes: I, uh, I'd like to see you again."

It's not exactly like being hit by a freight train, but it's close. There's polite and then there's asking someone out on a date. I think I can see where that line is drawn and we seem to have fallen pretty firmly on one side of it. "Umm..." A bachelor degree in English lit. and this is the best I can come up with. My professors would be weeping if they knew.

Taylor, for all his easy smiles and gentle voice, waits me out. I hate him a little bit just for that. Doesn't he know I have perfected cowardice to the level of a survival tactic?

"Oh, fine. Pick me up tomorrow night at eight." I do my best imitation of blasé, but inside I'm giddy. I've seen Kate do this before: medicate one reckless relationship with another. I decide to steal a page out of her book and see where it takes me.

I don't think of Christian.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

He picks me up after work and takes me to dinner. We talk about my day and my boss and he walks me home. I kiss his cheek. He doesn't reciprocate or tell me about Christian unless I ask. (I try not to.) It's two weeks before I understand that Wednesdays and Sundays are his days off. I offer to cook him dinner at my place for our next not-really-a-date, mostly because I have Kate's backing.

"He's just a friend," I insist as she gussies up in the bathroom mirror. "It's not what you think."

"You've been seeing him for eighteen days, six hours and eleven minutes."

My jaw drops. "You're keeping count?"

Kate rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. "I made the numbers up. My point is that you've been out with him a few times and now you've invited him to our apartment. It's the natural order of things."

"You make it sound sleazy," I protest, wondering if it's too late to cancel. He'll be disappointed, I know, and I'll spend the night wondering about what-ifs. A part of me wishes I could be as confident as Kate and just - go for it. I'm twenty-two years old; I should be relishing the opportunity to be alone with a man. I hunt for some kind of objection that Kate could latch onto. I need her on my side. (Or my lack of gumption does.) "Don't you think he's a little too old for me?"

"Do you think he's old?" Kate chirps.

"You know, I liked it better when you were the intrepid journalist in this twosome of ours. Now that you've gone all head-shrink on me, I'm thinking about getting a new roommate."

I can hear her laughing. "And give up a front seat to all my romantic entanglements? You wouldn't dare." She steps out in heels and a tight-fitting black dress, her hair pinned up in a neat chignon: I remember she's going out with Elliot - who is thirty. I'm looking for support from the wrong woman. "If you don't want him to come over, just take him out to dinner somewhere. Go dancing!"

"And leave two pounds' worth of meatloaf to thaw in the sink for nothing?" I shake my head. "I have to cook it anyway. We'll just... have a nice, friendly, entirely PG evening. Alone in your apartment."

"Our apartment," Kate corrects. "Here." She produces a small, black device from her bedside table and holds it out to me.

"You have a panic button? Since when?"

"Since Daddy's little girl started college," she says, shrugging. I had no idea. "You press this for two seconds and they get a call down at the station that our house alarm's been activated. They'll have to come over check it out."

"Right." My thumb hovers over the black switch. "You're giving me a rape whistle."

Kate nods. "A high-tech rape whistle. And I'm lending, not giving."

"You think Taylor's a rapist?"

"I think you're freaking out because you've never invited a guy over _just_ to have dinner - don't give me that look, I know what went on with you and Christian - and you're worried that you won't know what to do. This is a worst case scenario precaution. On the off chance that you don't set fire to the kitchen and he doesn't screw up, you won't even need it. But in case you do..."

"Thanks." I want my answer to sound like it's not necessary. I want to tell her that she's got the wrong idea about Christian and me and what I can or cannot handle, but not only is there an NDA stopping me short, I'm embarrassed to unearth all that nonsense. Kate wouldn't judge, but I don't want her to think I'm weak-willed.

Despite slivers of guilt and I'm-sure-I'm-overreacting self-sabotage, I keep the panic button in my back pocket while I get dinner underway. It takes some time for the meatloaf to cook, which means I can busy myself with tidying up the living room. Shoving unpacked boxes against one side of the room is the only way to free up the dining room table. By the time I'm finished, it's already eight and I realize I haven't changed. There's no time for make-up, so I struggle into a navy dress and a pair of comfortable flats and rush back into the kitchen to check on the meatloaf. It's nicely cooked and the smell of thyme and rosemary hangs heavy in the air when I open the oven door to check. Tossing a salad together is quick work. I'm done by eight fifteen, with the table set and wine cooling in the fridge.

We need music, I realize. Something that doesn't scream _romantic_ _date_, in case our wires might've gotten crossed, or _young college graduate, _because I don't want him to think I'm immature or innocent or any of the things that first drew Christian's attention. Which means Taylor Swift's out of the race. So, too, is the Bieber. I'm left thumbing through Kate's collection when the oven timer goes. For all my culinary aspirations, it's the carving of a well-cooked piece of meat that I love best - Ray calls it the privilege of the chef. I tell myself Taylor won't mind and go ahead and load up the plates.

Is this too domestic? Too much the nineteen-fifties housewife waiting for the husband to come home? I don't care; the butterflies in my stomach are two parts excitement to one part nerves. Miraculously, I don't even drop the plates on my way to the table. Something's missing, still. It takes me a moment to realize what and then I'm back rummaging through cupboards and drawers in search of candles. We don't have holders yet, but I'm an industrious woman; I improvise with a pair of shot glasses Kate brought back from Buenos Aires.

Connie Francis croons on the stereo as I sit down to wait. The microwave clock reads eight-thirty. Taylor should be here any minute.

I'm still waiting at eight forty-two. And nine. And nine-sixteen. I liberate a crisp salad leaf from my plate and chew it while I wait. I realized I went a little overboard on the vinegar and fetch the honey out of the kitchen. Taste again, because my cooking is not an exact science. _Better_.

At nine-twenty-two, I check my phone. No messages, no calls. Connie's back to singing the first song on the record and I'm starving. More importantly, I'm feeling like a loser. I realize I got the metaphor all wrong: I'm not the Stepford wife material. I'm the girl who gets stood up before the first date - the pre-spinster type whose romantic options are not limited so much as nonexistent. Maybe this is payback.

A knock on the door curbs the spiral of self-recrimination before I overdramatize any further. "Who is it?" I call out, hoping and dreading at the same time.

"The jerk formerly known as Jason Taylor," filters in through the cracks in the wood. "If you want me to go away, I'll-"

I open the door. "You're late."

"I know. I'm so-"

"You couldn't call?" I rasp, fully aware that I sound pathetic. We're not dating. We're not even friends - just people who occasionally get together and share a meal. He doesn't owe me an explanation. My fury is a harder tide to stem than that: "Or text? Or, Christ, email?" I forget not everyone is as plugged-in as Christian, but it's not an excuse.

"I didn't get the chance," Taylor tells me. "I'm really sorry. I was going to be here early, bring you flowers-"

"Which are where?"

He points to a bouquet sticking out of the trash can down the hall, stems thrust out like arrows in a quiver. "I thought if I showed up with roses after making you wait, you'd hit me over the head. Besides, they were wilting already. I left them in the car..."

"Come inside."

"What?"

I glare at him. "You're not going to get a _please_ with that. Come inside." It's not the flowers, I tell myself, it's the fact that he was looking forward to seeing me so much that he went out of his way to stop by a florist's. I try to hold onto my righteous indignation as he brushes past on his way in. "Meatloaf's gone cold and the salad is probably tepid by now, but..."

Oh, screw it. I fist Taylor's lapels in my hands and press my lips to his before the front door has slid fully shut. I don't see the hand that stops it short or the patent leather shoe that steps into the apartment. Taylor is warm and solid beneath my hands. His lips are very soft.

I feel his hand cup my cheek as he breathes out his surprise. He doesn't push me away and the harsh tattoo in my chest lets up its drumming.

That's when I hear it. A voice from a dream, from a nightmare, all urbane cadences wrought with a forked tongue. "Good evening, Ana. Taylor."

My heart skips a beat as I disentangle myself from Taylor's loose hold. There, standing like a wraith in my living room, is Christian Grey.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Christian," I murmur, as if he needs someone to remind him of his own name. "What are you... what are you doing here?" In my apartment, I want to add, in this labyrinth of cardboard boxes and Ikea furniture and heaped misunderstandings, where nothing's ever as simple as it should be.

Blue eyes narrow. "I think a better question would be what is Taylor doing here... don't you?" He's fuming. I feel my resolve slip and shatter, and suddenly I wish I'd kept Kate's panic button on me.

There's no cavalry coming to rescue me from this mess.

"Sir," Taylor begins, "I can explain..."

"I invited him." My voice shakes pitifully, but the words are out, all consonants accounted for, and the molten ferocity of Christian's gaze alights on me once more. I can feel myself tremble. "He's here because I invited him to have dinner. With me."

"Is that so? Nice to see you're so very quick to jump into bed with another man..."

Taylor stiffens beside me, but my hand on his arm stops him from speaking again. He's gambling his job; me, I'm only in it for my already wounded ego. That's never been worth very much to Mr. Grey. "Christian, please... There's no need to cause a scene. What I do with my time doesn't concern you anymore." I bury nails into my palms to steel myself. Words spill from me like coins from a slashed purse: "And by the way you're in my apartment and I didn't invite you in and I-I think I'd like you t-to go now." Preferably before my knees give out.

A soft, detached part of me is able to observe that my stutter has come back. Excellent timing.

For a few precious instants I expect Christian to raise his hand and hit me. He never has, not without some pale shadow of permission to vindicate his mood swings, but then I don't think I've ever seen him this furious. The door slams so hard in his wake that plaster dust shakes free of the frame. "Taylor," I murmur. "Could you please lock the door? I have to, um-" My legs fail me and I go down with a thump. I can't seem to catch my breath to apologize. Taylor grasps me by the arm, the only anchor I have to lead me to the living room couch.

There's just room enough for one of us to sit. Taylor crouches at my feet. His shoes are ridiculously shiny. "I think I'm having a heart attack," I announce, because my insides feel like they're seceding and my pride is in tatters. This evening couldn't get any worse.

"Put your head between your legs," Taylor advises me. "I know it's scary, but you're not in danger. Do you have any Xanax in the house?" I shake my head - or think I do. "Okay. No problem. It'll pass on its own."

"I didn't - I didn't know that - heart attacks did that." In fact I know they don't, but somehow I can still manage to be a smartass even when I'm dying.

Taylor huffs out a soft laugh. "You're having a panic attack." His palm is wide and warm between my shoulder blades. "You're okay. Everything's fine."

"How?" I choke, barely able to feel my face. My fingers are throbbing. "How is - how is it?" Christian Grey was just in my apartment and saw me kissing another man. I wish the ground would open and swallow me up.

"Well, for what it's worth I don't think anyone's kicked Mr. Grey out before." Taylor's thumb rubs absently against my spine. "Deep breaths, now. You're all right. He's not coming back."

"Sure about that?"

Taylor's face swims above me, but I can tell he's nodding. "Positive. If I had to guess, I'd say he's probably sulking on his way back to the Escala right now." His hand slips away. "He'll be okay, too."

"And you?"

"What about me?" Taylor's flippancy doesn't convince me.

I lift up my head and find that walls and floor stay mercifully in their place. "Did I just get you fired?" The kiss probably sealed Taylor's fate: he might be able to spin visiting me at an ungodly hour as some kind of post-purchase security protocol - however trying that might be on my ego - but making out with his boss' ex-girlfriend is a whole other level of unprofessional. And I'm to blame.

Taylor tips up my chin. "That's my problem." We need to talk about this. I can't let him take the fall for the mess I caused, much less lose his job, but Taylor's arms are suddenly around me and I discover I've slid into his lap on the floor and he's kissing me back like it's more important than breathing. (He doesn't kiss like Christian, some small, distracted part of my brain notes. I ignore it. Christian is not the gold standard for every good thing in my life.)

"This not how I expected tonight to go," I mumble between kisses. I'm caught between the couch and Taylor, two places so unyielding that I know I should feel trapped. I don't. My hand cards through his thinning hair as he buries his lips in the crook of my neck. "I had a whole thing planned. Dinner and music - and there was going to be dancing involved."

"A slow seduction?"

I laugh. "Something like that. You know, I'm pretty sure it should bother me that getting caught in flagrante by your boss gets you hot."

Taylor startles me by pulling back. "It doesn't." I feel his hand through the thin bodice of my dress. He's holding my waist, a perfect gentleman though he could easily do so much more. I like to think of myself as the kind of girl who doesn't put out on the first date, but tonight, with Taylor, pulse echoing against my eardrums, I'm tempted to make an exception. Technically speaking, this isn't our first date by any stretch of imagination. I've done worse with Christian.

And there, just like that, the real reason why I should stop while I'm ahead comes back to haunt me.

"This is going to be difficult for you, isn't it?" I hear myself ask. "You can't date me _and_ work for Christian Grey."

Resolve flashes across Taylor's face; I've had to talk myself into doing so many things these past few weeks that I know the look well. Taylor kisses me lightly. "I can handle it." I so badly want to believe it - particularly when he helps me back onto the couch and the shadows shift just enough that I can take in his flushed cheeks, the smudge of lipstick across his mouth. I try to brush away the stain, but Taylor catches my hand. "What are you afraid of? Grey?"

I arch a brow, suddenly caught off guard.

"Let me rephrase," offers Taylor. "Are you afraid of... being with _me_ because of Mr. Grey?"

"No." I should be, I think, because he's everything my mother warned me about, down to the Hell's Angels-style motorcycle and fists that could punch me through a wall. But I'm not scared when I'm with him and I don't feel as though I don't measure up to his standards. It's more than I can say about Christian, who's probably planning his revenge as we speak. My stomach twists into knots.

Trust Taylor to provide distraction: "So then... do you want to do this again? Not the - not the interruption," Taylor adds quickly, "but everything else."

I can still feel his lips pressed to mine. Our locked hands give me strength. "Only if you show up on time." My world's teetering on the brink, likely to be obliterated by one of the most powerful men in the country, and I'm sitting here making lousy jokes.

Taylor grins. "I can do that."

We retire the meatloaf and the limp salad goes into the fridge, for me to nibble on at three in the morning when I discover I can't sleep because I'm afraid of the crucible ahead. Taylor helps me with the dishes and our hands brush under the soapy water, the calluses on his palms softened by the suds. I think of kissing him, the bold, stubbled column of his neck, and a plate nearly slides from my fingers. I don't apologize. I'm not ready to be alone, but Taylor probably shouldn't spend the night; I don't want to think of another man while I'm in bed with him.

Next time, we'll do it right. I'll have unpacked by then and Taylor will be punctual and Christian will keep far, far away from us. I try to infuse the thought with certainty, to wish it into being like my mom tried to get me to do with everything in my life after she read _The Secret_. I don't really buy that yearning is enough.

"At least we didn't lack excitement," I murmur against Taylor's lips. He dips his head to kiss me again and I feel him melt against my body, hips canting to press against mine. I could ask him to stay and he would. I'm sure of it. My hand presses lightly against his chest. "What color were the roses you brought me?"

Taylor shudders back a step. "Red. They were red."

"Bring me a white bouquet next time."

"Favorite color?"

"No. It's just that, well," I know I'm going to feel foolish for saying this later, but here goes, "back in the age of heroes and courtly love, white roses used to mean 'I am worthy of you.'" My cheeks are already aflame from all the kissing and the general shakeup of the evening. I can't blush any hotter than this, so I shrug and run my hand down Taylor's chest, feeling his heart beating fast beneath my fingertips. "You're talking to a nerd. Deal with it."

He humors me, saying, "I'll keep that in mind" as he lays a chaste kiss against the corner of my lips. Kate's right, I don't have a lot of experience with this, but even I know to turn my head just enough for a proper kiss goodnight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

"You can finish up tomorrow," Mr. Hyde tells me as he plucks my trench coat from the rack and holds it open for me to slot my arms into the sleeves. "If I keep you around any longer, you'll start asking me for overtime."

"I can do that?"

He laughs and his hands squeeze my shoulders. I try to think of it as a fatherly gesture, it's easier on the nerves. "What are your plans tonight? Heading straight home?" He punches the elevator button and I fall into step beside him, my handbag dangling from my shoulder. I've taken a couple of manuscripts along for the night; it's technically not my job, but Mr. Hyde gave me permission and the _unsolicited_ pile grows larger every day since I got here. I want to prove that I'm a team player and help out.

"Probably Skype with my mother," I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. I miss her but I'm worried she'll ask about Christian.

"Why don't you join me for a drink?" Mr. Hyde's eyes glint and glimmer under the lights in the elevator. It's probably an innocent request.

"I'm not really much of a drinker..."

"Then what about dinner?" he prompts. "There's a great Italian place not far from-"

The elevator doors open and a solitary figure stands before us, all grey wool suit and an open-collared shirt. This is twice in as many days that he's shown up unannounced. Hyde makes up my surprise with a double-take. "Mr. Grey? Mr. Christian Grey? It's an honor. I'm a huge fan of your company's work in the Sudan. I was wondering, if you have a minute-"

"I don't," Christian answers, scathing. He holds out his hand to me. "I'm here to drive you home, Ana."

"What?" Not only is this news to me, but I'm feeling embarrassed on Mr. Hyde's behalf, who still stands there with hand outstretched to shake Christian's. There's being self-important and then there's being downright rude. "I-no. No, I have my own car." Which Christian bought for me, I recall and feel my good mood curdle at the thought. I should know by now that his gifts always come with strings attached.

"Ana-" He sounds exasperated.

Hyde turns towards me. "Is everything alright?" I can only imagine how this must look: _billionaire chasing after petulant young woman, details on page six_. The papers would have a field day if they knew. My face heats.

"I'm fine, Mr. Hyde. I'll, uh, I'll see you tomorrow."

I stalk off with a tight smile and my hands balled into fists, as if walking briskly away is enough to spare me Christian's unwanted advances. He catches up with me about half a block down, his Bentley blocking my passage as I start to cross the street. I glance around, hoping for witnesses - or perhaps traffic police.

Christian slides out of the backseat. I can't tell who's behind the wheel, but my gut tells me it's not Taylor. He wouldn't be party to this. (Would he?)

"What do you want?" I snap. "You completely embarrassed me!"

"Get in the car," Christian tells me. His grey eyes are pleading. "Please, Ana-"

I throw up my hands. "What for? What could you possibly have to say to me?"

"I think you're making a mistake."

"By talking to my boss?" My chest feels tight, every last ounce of self-control squandered on trying to hold it together. Christian was my lover only weeks ago; he was my first man. Now he's glaring at me like I shrunk his favorite sweater. "You can't be pissed off that I'm seeing Taylor."

A muscle in his jaw tightens as he forces himself to speak low and quiet, to avoid drawing attention: "I don't want to have this conversation in the street," he hisses. "Come to the penthouse. We'll talk."

"No. We're talking here and now or you're getting back into your car and driving the hell away from me." Amazingly, my voice doesn't shake. I don't know what makes me think he'd listen or that I have the power to force his hand, but there it is: the first bluff of the night. It's up to Christian to call it.

I know I'm outmatched when I see his posture change, shoulders relaxing as he smiles. "He's like me, you know. He likes the same things I do. If you're trying to get away from us - what was it you called me?" He makes a production of dredging up the memory. "Ah yes: _a fucked-up son of a bitch_. Well, you're not getting very far."

My first instinct is that he's lying. He must be. This is some cruel joke played to ruin whatever happiness I could find without him. I remember Taylor's arms around me and the way he kissed - the time we spent together without mind games or thinly-veiled threats or paperwork that still keeps me up at night - and I rebel against the notion. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? I can't believe I actually thought I loved you."

His expression shutters. "I'm doing this for your own good..."

"Is that what you're telling yourself? Because from this end, it looks a lot like stalking and terrorizing. Tell me, Christian, are you still tracking my phone? Is that how you knew where I'd be tonight?" He says nothing and I know I have my answer. Oddly enough, it doesn't feel like vindication. "Why would you even bother? You've had a dozen submissives before me; you can't tell me you keep tabs on all of them?" If he does, I'm going to revise my opinion of him as a very bright young entrepreneur and start wondering who's really running his company.

Christian grits his teeth. "I wanted," he says, "to apologize."

"For last night? Terrific. You can start by calling Taylor-"

"Taylor no longer works for me." He's dead serious, but the trace of a smile at the corner of his lips galls me. This is my fault. He did this to punish me for daring to move on with my life when he hadn't.

"On what grounds?"

He shrugs. "I felt I could no longer trust him."

"Some apology." I wonder if Mr. Hyde would be terribly angry if I were to use the manuscripts in my bag as ballast for a makeshift mace. The urge to hit something has never been stronger; this must be how Christian feels when he's in the Red Room. I'm amazed he hasn't been the object of a criminal investigation yet. (Maybe he has. Maybe he owns the police and all the women who've tried to take legal action against him have been quietly led away; he certainly wouldn't be the first wealthy man to evade justice.)

Christian's lips stiffen to a thin, pale line. "I wanted to apologize for the way we left things that night. You were upset. I could've done a better job of comforting you... It occurs to me I shouldn't have let you leave."

I snort. "No. _That_ part was right." I've spilled enough tears weeping for my weakness, my crass inability to satisfy this seemingly perfect man. The night we broke up is etched into my memory with thick crimson welts: I may have disappointed him, but I disappointed myself even more. "You shouldn't have done what you did before I became upset, though." There's no need to be vulgar and we're still out in the street, cars whizzing by and cell phones snapping in the distance. Some gossip blog somewhere will be laying out his picture with a pun-filled byline. I can only hope they think I'm making a fuss because his car cut me off.

"You said-"

I step closer and his mouth clamps shut. He's scared, too. That shouldn't bring me such a thrill. "You were my first boyfriend, Christian. Or lover, or dominant - or whatever you want to call it. Do you really think I knew what I was getting into?"

He bristles. "I asked you to do your homework..."

"And I did. But you have years of practical experience with countless women when all I have is Google. I know you're idealistic about technology, but Christian, you threw me headfirst into deep end right from the start. This sink-or-swim thing doesn't work when you play as hard as you do."

"Then you shouldn't be dating Taylor," he tells me, adamant.

It comes back to that one point of contention. He still thinks he knows best what I can or cannot handle - it's partly my fault for letting him dictate the terms of our arrangement in the beginning. Were Kate in my shoes, she would've long told him to stay away from her or else.

I can be strong, too. I can speak my mind.

"That's my call to make. Not yours." I doubt he'll understand, but it's worth a try: "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't contact me again, Christian. I have a life, you know. I didn't just spring fully formed out of a shell when you decided to give me the time of day."

He looks wounded. A couple of weeks ago, I would've felt responsible. The part of me that wants to take him in my arms can also recognize that he's bad news. Christian shakes his head. "I don't think that."

"Yes, you do. Don't take this the wrong way, but I think you should see someone. You're going to hurt someone someday." _If you haven't already._

"I have a shrink."

Could be that's the truth, could be he's lying. I shrug. "Then get another. Or find a friend who won't coddle you." My eyes are dry as I hold out my hand. "Goodbye, Christian." I'm crazy enough to think this really is the last I see of him.

He pumps my hand, his fist warm and smooth against mine. I miss the rough calluses of Taylor's palm. A seed of doubt gnaws at the thought of him. What if Christian is right? What if they're birds of a feather?

I turn on my heel and keep on walking. I take the bus home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

After eighteen seconds, my cell phone falls silent once more. That I've dumped the BlackBerry and bought an iPhone doesn't guarantee me any real peace; I should have changed the number, too. I don't breathe any easier, not least because Kate's still glaring at me from the passenger seat. "He's called you like five times already. And that's only tonight. Aren't you going to call him back?"

"Not right now, no." My lips purse tightly. "I'm driving."

Kate rolls her eyes with an emphatic sigh. "I don't get it. I thought you liked him."

"I do." The protest seems weak to my own ears, but it's the best I can do. I like Taylor; he's sweet and he's attentive and he's a great kisser, but the truth is I can't stop thinking of what Christian said.

"Something happened between you two." I'm powerless against Kate's talent for sleuthing. She'll push and prod at me until I confess. "Did he get frisky?"

"Kate..."

"What? I'm fishing because you're being weirdly tight-lipped about this. Come on," she moans. "Now's your chance to get me back for all the TMI you've had to listen to after my breakups! Is he a one minute man or something?"

I nearly floor the gas pedal. "No! Jesus, Kate... Look, it's nothing major. Just drop it, okay? You're not going to figure it out." A tale as convoluted as mine should stretch even Kate's wild imagination, but I'd rather not chance it.

She must pick up on the pleading note in my voice because she sighs and folds her arms across her chest with a petulant headshake. "Fine, fine..." Capitulation only lasts for a handful of seconds. "So this club you're taking me to, have you ever been there before? Because you should probably know it's not exactly, ah, mainstream..." It's not often that I get to see Kate Kavanagh tongue-tied. Rarer still that she'll bend backwards to protect my so-called innocence.

All the same, it's enough to make me smile. "Oh, relax. I'm aware it's a fetish club. I promise I won't faint if you say the word."

"Okay," Kate huffs, "who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

"I'm still me," I protest. One NDA and one love affair-gone-bad later, but I'm the same Anastasia who saved Kate's ass when she couldn't make that all-important interview. Up ahead, the neon lights of the club beckon me closer and I start scanning the street for available parking.

Kate is still leering at me. "I thought I'd have to be the one to tell you, but here you are, all worldly and composed. How did you even find out about this place?" I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. The next question is going to be about Taylor - or, failing that, Christian.

I decide to distract her while I still can. "Google."

"Google?" she deadpans. "You Google-searched for fetish clubs in Seattle." It's not a question, so I don't answer. "Please tell me you used your own computer."

I'm surprised she'd ask. "Of course, why?"

"Oh, no reason. Just make sure you've updated your antivirus. Searching for porn-"

"I wasn't!" I squeeze into a parking space a block away while Kate teases me. It's well-earned ribbing; this is well outside my comfort zone and normally I wouldn't be caught dead inside such a place, but the fine line between what's normal and what isn't has moved a little since the last time Kate and I had a real, honest heart-to-heart. I don't try to explain, only loop my arm through hers and lead her into the world Christian tried to introduce me to.

We're dressed for the occasion and still I feel like we stand out. For one thing, Kate's lent me her V-neck and it keeps sliding down to reveal the very top of my white bra. For another, we get carded on the way in.

The bouncer explains that it's club policy to check IDs and wishes us a great night. I'm expecting a lot more sleaze than I get. He doesn't even blink at the couple behind us: a woman with a leash in hand and her partner sporting a thick leather collar. I take a deep breath as we enter the club: the music hits me first. It's loud and sexy and I can feel it slither over my bones like a warm, smoky caress. Kate's fingernails dig into the meat of my arm.

"What is it?"

"There's a floor show!" she says, wide-eyed, and points. I follow her gaze to a raised stage where patrons are frolicking in various states of undress, using props I recognize from Christian's play room.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Kate shakes me. "That's it? Oh my God, you really are an alien."

"Let's get some alcohol into you," I sigh, "you're starting to sound like my mother." Although my mother, come to think of it, would be having the time of her life in a place like this. There are more than a few good-looking men walking around without a shirt. Tempting as it is to stand and gawk from a distance, I didn't come here for that.

"What can I get you, ladies?" The bartender is young, maybe a little older than I am, her hair cropped short and her lips painted a vicious red. She doesn't seem fazed to see us glancing around like explorers in a foreign land. They probably get newcomers all the time; from the outside, the club looks perfectly inconspicuous. How long they stay once they realized what they've walked into is another story.

I order a Cosmo for myself and get Kate a rum and Coke. She doesn't object.

"It's her first time," I tell the bartender. "She's a little freaked."

The young woman lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. "Haven't seen you around here before, either, sweetheart... Pretty sure I'd remember a face like yours."

I can't help smile at the implicit compliment - or what sounds like it might be a compliment, I don't want to pry too deeply into off-the-cuff remarks. "Actually, it's first time here, too. It's just that I don't scare so easily." When Kate demands a play-by-play of the conversation from me later, I'm sure she'll lose it over this bit. Right now she's too busy watching the congregation around us to notice.

"So is this a Lewis and Clark thing," I'm asked, "or are you on the lookout for something a little more... in depth?"

A shiver runs up my spine. "That depends. Could you point me in the right direction if I was?" I realize I'm playing with fire. The stakes are high and I've been burned before.

"Maybe." My Cosmopolitan hits the counter with a click, the bartender leaning forward on her hands. "You got a name, beautiful?" I tell her and she laughs. "Like the Disney princess. Nice. I'm Steph." Her hand is cold and a little damp from mixing our drinks. I feel her thumb swipe over my knuckles before she releases my hand. "What are you into?"

The last person to ask me that so bluntly was Christian. I push the thought of him far from my mind and glance at Kate. She seems entranced by the sight of a man tying up another with red rope right there at the bar. I know she's going to want to write about this; I'll have to talk her out of it. Meanwhile, Steph is still looking to me for an answer.

"Would it sound weird if I said I just wanted a little... conversation?" I feel ridiculous asking; I don't belong here, I ran out on Christian because this world of shadows and sharp, stinging slaps eludes me. I don't like pain. I don't want to go through that with another man.

Steph dips her head to catch my eye. "You want someone to talk you through?" I nod. "All right. Let me see what I can do, sweetheart. What about your friend?"

Beside me, Kate is still surveying the crowd. "I think she's going to sit this one out." I pinch Kate's side. "You okay?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?" I ask again, pitching my voice a little higher. If I've traumatized her with this excursion, I'm going to feel more than a little guilty. "If you're uncomfortable, we can just head out..."

Kate grins, her pale cheeks flushed. "There's no in this club I can see looking uncomfortable... except maybe you."

"I'm not-" I forget, sometimes, that Kate can read me better than my own parents. "Oh shut up."

Steph's chilled fingers touch my wrist. "Hey, Disney girl." When I told her my name, I actually had this weird idea that she might use it. "Three o'clock," she says and nods down the bar to a redhead watching me intently. "That's Taro. He's a sweet guy. Think he's got what you need. Hey-" her voice dips to a whisper, "you should come around sometime when I'm not working."

"So you do more than matchmaking?" Kate, bless her, is there to cover up for my inner flailing. She nudges me with her knee. "Go. Taro's making eyes at you. Go on. If you don't, I will."

My useless throat concedes to work again. "But... what about Elliot?"

"Well, obviously I'd be cheating," Kate sighs. "All the more reason for you to go and not me; keep me from committing a cardinal sin. Go on. You didn't bring me here so we could sit around and drink, right? We can do that at home."

I slide off the barstool on deceptively steady knees. Taro does have a nice smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"I know it's not my place to-"

"It's not," Hyde says, barely glancing up from the laptop screen.

"-but I feel very strongly about this one. I think it might be a hit-" I cut myself off this time, faced suddenly with the full force of my boss's bloodshot displeasure. If I've learned anything over the past couple of weeks is that Mr. Hyde does not enjoy being told he doesn't know everything. His decision-making process is all over the place, his management style is two parts critique to one part attempt at charming his way back into our good graces. I'm used to difficult men: my mother keeps marrying them. "Hear me out."

"You've sent out the invitations I asked you?"

"Yes."

"And you've made the plane reservations for next week?"

"Yes-"

"So if you've finished all the tasks you had for today, why can't you do what a normal PA would do and _go home_?" He sounds exasperated. I realize it's probably not a good thing to be antagonizing a man who has the power to fire me, but I've been tiptoeing around this all day.

"Just read it. Please? I can't get any of the editors-"

"That's because we're all a little busy, because your goddamn boyfriend is trying to engineer a corporate takeover," Mr. Hyde snaps. His open palm connects with the desk with a loud thwack and I jump, startled.

"My... boyfriend?" I try to imagine Taylor buying SIP. I'm sure he's interested in books, but enough to buy a publishing company?

Hyde leans back in his seat, looking up at me with a sneer. "Christian Grey of Grey Enterprises Holdings Incorporated... Now there's a guy who loves to put his name on things. Think he's going to turn us into Grey Publishing?"

I don't know what to say. Children's literature tells me that's probably a sign I should shut up. "He's not my boyfriend," I mumble instead, the words a poor defense against the glare Hyde is leveling at me.

"Really? Because you two looked pretty damn cozy the other night in the lobby... Did you dump him? Is that what this is?" He laughs, but there's no mirth in it. "Please tell this isn't Grey taking my company hostage while you two lovebirds settle your problems."

"It's not." My mind reeling with the news, I try to infuse certainty into my voice. I think it's not. We broke up weeks ago; how long does it take to set something like this up? Of all the publishing houses in Seattle, is SIP an objectively profitable choice or did I play a role in making up his mind? "I, uh." There's a knot in my throat that I can't swallow past. I shift the manuscript in my hands and deposit it carefully on the edge of Mr. Hyde's glass desk. "I think you should read this. It's going to be a hit."

"Your years and years of experience in the business tell you that, huh?"

I haven't done it yet and I don't to break my winning streak; I promise myself I won't cry in front of my boss. "It's a gut feeling," I answer, voice trembling. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Hyde."

"Ana." He stomps me in the doorway. "Fix this. Whatever you have to do. Because if Grey tries to take over, you'll be the first person he's going to fire."

I pack up my things as quickly as I can, all the while trying hard to swallow back sobs. I'm fortunate that almost everyone has left by now and there are only security cameras to spy the mascara running down my cheeks. My hands shake as I fish out the car keys and slide into my newly-purchased Ford. It turns out that second-hand dealerships work pretty fast when you're selling an all-but-new car with only a handful of miles to its name. I get my crying done while the evening news plays out on the radio. Another war, another natural catastrophe in distant parts of the world - and here I am, crying because my boss was short with me.

Out of habit, I reach for my cell phone. No missed calls. I remember Kate saying something about having plans with Elliot tonight. As for Taylor - well, after I blew him off for two days, I'm not surprised he's given up. I was going to try Skype with him tonight. I remember that it's supposed to be his night off - of would be, if he still had a job - and maybe, if he's not too mad at me for being such a coward, we can pick up where we left off.

I know now that if I do call, I'll only end up talking about Christian-fucking-Grey and his knack for ruining my life. It's not a conversation I want to have.

There's only one other place I can go to. Probably too early for there to be a crowd yet, but I don't mind. I just need some place to think for a while. By the time I reach the club, the waterworks have passed and I feel like I'm floating, my extremities transformed into smoke and vapor, my throat raw. I show my driver's license to the bouncer and slip inside, eager for the press of bodies, the tribal drumming of the music in my ribcage. There's little of either. I was right; I am early.

A hand touches my spine. "Hey, Disney Girl. Welcome back." Steph circles around me like a predator, but what I really need is a hug. (I don't indulge: I'm pathetic, not delusional.) She's wearing bangles tonight and there's a fresh pink stripe in her hair. She looks stricken at the sight of me. "Shit, what's happened to you?"

"Ex-boyfriend's laying claim to the world," I say, shrugging. "Any place I could... hide for a little while?"

Steph looks relieved. "For a second there I thought you were going to say Taro did something. So much for my rep as your friendly fetish club yenta..." She squeezes my arm. "Come on, Disney Girl. We got rooms upstairs." I came here yesterday afraid of hearing just that, but Taro was very good; he knew exactly what not to say to me. By now I'm too tired to protest and I barely notice Steph settling the price of the room on my behalf.

"I'll pay you back," I tell her as she leads me up metal steps. "If there's an ATM around..."

"Next time. You look like you need a bit of peace and quiet right now and you're only likely to get it for an hour at most. Gets pretty noisy around here once folks get off work." I'm expecting chains and crosses and rubber mattresses, but the door Steph opens leads into a chamber that falls well short of Christian's Red Room. It's as sterile as a motel room, only there's no TV and the bed lacks any linens. Steph eases the door shut behind us. I notice there's no slot for a key, only a button on the doorframe, possibly to light up the _occupied_ LED on the other side. "Want me to call your girl?"

_My girl?_ "Kate's not on duty tonight," I tell her, letting my bag and trench coat hit the ground.

"You're in a bad way, you know that?"

I snort. "Tell me about it."

"No, I mean," Steph tugs me over to the bed. "Honey, when's the last time you had someone take you down?"

"If you mean a verbal take down, I just had a spectacular, Olympic-grade one from my boss. Seriously, I think he implied prostitution might be in my future if I wanted to keep my job." I laugh, but I can hear myself: I'm on the verge of hysteria.

Steph makes a face. "I meant a dominant." She cocks her head, eyeliner-rimmed eyes scrutinizing me for signs of deception. "Taro didn't do it for you last night?"

"Do what?"

"Subspace, hon. You know, that nice and fuzzy place you go to when your guy's done his job properly?" She's looking at me like I'm being deliberately obtuse, so I bite back a smartass comment about how that sounds like an orgasm more than anything else. I have no idea what she's talking about.

"Taro was great," I say instead, an answer to a different question.

Our stalemate lasts for a long, protracted moment, until Steph sighs and glances down at her watch. "I have to get back to work or those animals will ransack the bar." She shakes me by the knee. "You'll be okay?"

"Always." I thank her for letting me crash up here and promise to be gone soon. I will, as soon as my heart stops trying to explode through my ribcage like some approximation of _Alien_.

Last night was fine. It was better than fine, actually. Taro and I stayed at the bar, but he could've talked me to my knees right there on the cold cement if he'd wanted to. Like a snake charmer, he found his way into my bones and played me where I stood. Our only contact was the warmth of his palm on the back of my neck. The rest he did with words. I don't regret the experience, but it wasn't like it was with Christian. I knew I could still step away if I wanted. The only time I truly felt at Taro's mercy was when he picked up his beer and let me have a sip. No hands, just my lips and his fingers on the back of my neck, guiding me.

I need more.

My hands shake as I pry the cell out of my bag. Of all the ways I'd planned on calling Taylor, sitting alone in a room that's been rented by the hour is not how I'd imagined doing it, but what the hell. He was with me the last time I felt like I was falling apart and I know I can trust him to talk me down from this ledge.

The ringing cuts off abruptly. "Taylor, hi," I start, gulping deep breaths between each word.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end is unmistakably female. I double check the screen. It says I'm calling Taylor. "Hello?"

And then, in the background, I overhear Taylor's voice asking: "Gail, who is it? Oh shit-" He must have seen my name flashing across the screen, but I'm already hanging up. I don't - I can't handle hearing his voice right now.

There's no cavalry coming to save me. No boyfriend. I pinch the bridge of my nose and tap the phonebook icon. The C's are easy to find.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter eight**

Christian's brows have reached up to his hairline. Short of wearing a wig and donning a pair of pumps, I don't think I've ever seen him look less like himself or more like me. I pat his shoulder on my way out of the elevator. "For the record, this is the last place I thought I'd end up tonight."

"What happened?" He follows me into the living room and I don't wait for an invitation to drop onto the couch like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. I imagine silt eddying up around me: I'm in a fanciful mood.

A question for a question: "Are you buying SIP?"

Christian folds his hands into his pockets. He looks like a dressed down Paul Newman, albeit quite a bit younger. "You sold the car," he sighs, "and the BlackBerry."

"I'd sell the computer, too, if I had the spare cash to buy another one. Unfortunately some of us have to pay for rent and utilities." I realize I'm only going to get out of this what I invest; if I give him a straight answer, I can hope to be awarded the same in turn. It feels like I've tried everything else to get him to be honest with me. "Are you buying SIP because I work there? Is this a revenge thing?" My arms fold across my chest. I'm tired of his games.

He sits on the ottoman at my feet, his calves bracketing mine. "Who told you about that?" It's not a denial. I don't need my Kate Kavanagh hat to know he's tiptoeing around an answer.

"My boss. He seems to think you're doing it because you're trying to ruin my life." I smile. Christian actually looks shell-shocked at this news, like it hadn't even crossed his mind. I'm not convinced; this _is_ the man who traced my phone and wormed his way into my life all while pretending to give me a choice. I think he thinks he was seducing me. It's a little too late for that now.

"I would never do anything to hurt you," he tells me, scandalized. "I swear it, Ana. The deal was in the works long before you came into my life. I'll back down from it if-"

"Will you?" I tip forward on the couch. "Promise me."

He looks taken aback for only a second and I wonder if I've taken him by surprise. Was that one of those offers I'm supposed to pass up because I have faith in him? Those days are gone. I can be literal when it suits me.

Christian grasps my hands in his. "I promise I'll rescind any proposals made and look elsewhere for my business if that makes you happy. We can put this behind us, can't we? It was just a mistake. A stupid mistake; you're right, I didn't behave responsibly..."

"Stop." For the first time since he happened into my apartment as I was kissing Taylor, I feel my chest swell with pity. "Christian, I didn't come here to get back together." His expression shifts right before my eyes.

"You're here to use me, then."

"No, I'm here to ask you a favor as someone who cares for you."

His eyes flash darkly. "Then why do you defy me? You think Taylor can give you what you need? Why aren't you talking to _him_? Why are you in _my_ apartment?"

"Because Taylor isn't trying to buy the company I work for!" I shout. It was always going to come to this: for all the prim extravagance that surrounds us, our tempers are painfully ungoverned. "He isn't sabotaging my career before it's even begun! And most importantly, because Taylor is with someone named Gail right now and I don't think he's interested in talking to the woman who cost him his job!"

Christian gapes at me, but his hands are no longer squeezing mine. "Taylor is with Ms. Jones?"

"Oh, is Gail her first name? Terrific. I was afraid Gail was another one of your submissives, since you two seem to have so much in common." I think of blonde, mature, patient Ms. Jones and realize I'm fighting a losing battle; _she_'d never give Taylor the cold shoulder for days at a time.

"Taylor hasn't dated any of my submissives," Christian scoffs.

"And how would _you_ know that? Oh, right." I throw up my hands. "You keep tabs, don't you?" He has the good grace to look embarrassed. It's something, I tell myself. It's not just a complete and utter disregard for those women's privacy. "Christian..."

"I know I have a problem!" So much for sitting down calmly; he's up on his feet and pacing, but what's more, he sounds utterly exasperated by the idea. Him and me both.

I bite my tongue. So tempting to point out that chasing after women who can't say no to him isn't the way to solve it, but I'm afraid of where that conversation might take us. Occasional feats of daring notwithstanding, I've never been very brave. "That's a start. You should probably talk to someone, though. Someone qualified to, um..."

"Cure me of my sexual perversions?" he asks, dripping derision.

"No. I think... Look, there were some things I said that night I shouldn't have." I feel myself blush. "I was scared and in pain - and I may have taken it out on you unfairly. I carry part of the blame."

He grimaces. "That's big of you."

"What, it's not the absolution you were hoping for? Tough." I kick off my shoes before I stand; we're no longer of a height, but it's not like it changes anything as far as psychological warfare. We've never been evenly matched. "Look, you opened my eyes to sex and - a lot of things. I'm grateful for that. But the rest? When I wasn't desperately trying to please you, I was petrified of how you'd react to my slip-ups. If you'd spank me or break up with me... or get into one of your moods." It's my turn to grab him by the hand. "You've been on both sides of this lifestyle. So tell me: is that how it's supposed to feel?" I'll pretend I didn't just reference his abuser as an example of a responsible partner; there's not an inch of space around Christian Grey that isn't booby-trapped with some dark secret.

Christian holds my gaze defiantly, but I already have my answer.

"Yeah, thought so."

"You should have said something," he insists. "It's unfair to blame on me when you had the chance to refuse the things we did..."

"I'm not." But Christian will be Christian and he chooses to see only the empty half. "I think you thought you were doing your best by me. And that's why you showed up at SIP the other day, isn't it? To warn me?" I can give him the benefit of the doubt; whatever else may be said of us and how we ended things, I did feel something for him. Still do.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

I arch a brow. "Think Taylor's going to be the one to do it?" He says nothing. "You know where I was when I called you tonight? The Ruby. It's a club up on-"

Christian's jaw drops. "I know where it is. I also know _what_ it is... What were you doing in a sex club, Ana? Have you lost your mind?"

"Found it, actually." I settle back on the couch. "See, I thought it was the stuff you needed in the bedroom that was the problem for me. Thirty minutes of watching people take a paddle cured me of that idea. The, um, submissives at the club? They looked satisfied. They were talking and laughing... and their partners were attentive to their needs just like any other boyfriend or girlfriend. I want _that_. I don't want a contract or someone telling me when to eat or what to wear."

"You want that," Christian clarifies, "but not with me." He cops to it with some difficulty; there's a lifetime's worth of rigidity in his shoulders that I won't be able to shift despite my best efforts. But then it's not my job to fix Christian Grey or save him from himself.

I need someone to be my equal, not my side project.

"No," I sigh. "Not with you."

We part at the elevator doors, though he offers to walk me down to the car. "I'd like it if you called me again sometime," he says. "You told me to get another shrink-"

"-yeah the one you've got doesn't seem to be hitting the right buttons." I shrug. "Sorry to be blunt."

Aggravation flashes across his face, but he doesn't belittle me for the interruption. "-or a friend. Turns out I don't have many of those." He shifts his weight. "Or, really... any."

"Will you give Taylor his job back?" I ask, because pushing my luck has always worked out so well for me in the past.

Christian smiles despite himself. "No."

"Well, it was worth a shot. We'll keep in touch." As the elevator doors slide shut, I think this is the way we should have left things the first time: not with me weeping my eyes out, not with Christian suffering for all the wrong reasons. There's something broken inside him and it manifests in strange, bordering-on-criminal ways, but he's not evil and he hasn't corrupted me. I have to believe that.

Friends give each other some leeway for behaving stupidly.

The journey home is smooth and swift. I've evaded rush hour and the streets are almost empty for me. I don't see Kate's car in the parking lot when I get home. She must be out still; probably won't come home tonight at all. There was a time not so long ago I would've judged her mercilessly for daring to pursue a man with such dogged determination. Now I know all about letting one's libido ride in the driver's seat.

"Anastasia." His voice startles me as I step on the landing, searching for my keys in the depths of the handbag.

"Taylor." Last person I expected to see tonight, but also the first I wanted near me. He looks troubled. Waiting outside my door can't have helped. "How long have you been here?"

"A couple of hours." He brushes that aside as if it were nothing. "I tried calling you..."

"My phone was switched off."

"I figured... Well, I thought it had to be that or you didn't want to talk to me because you got the wrong idea..."

I slot my key into the door. We should probably do this inside, without the neighbors being party to all the ups and downs of my romantic life. "How is Ms. Jones, Taylor? Will I get an invitation to the wedding?"

The door sticks. I ram my shoulder into it until it opens.

Behind me, Taylor stands stiff and sullen. "That's uncalled for."

"Is it?" I drop handbag and trench coat on the back of the couch and wheel around to face him. "Because I thought we had a good thing going. I mean, did I imagine you kissing me? Is that just a thing you do with every girl that comes along?" _Or only the ones who date Christian Grey first?_ I wisely bite my lip from adding that last barb.

Taylor hovers in the doorway. I haven't invited him in and suddenly I'm not sure I should. "You stopped returning my calls," he points out. "You didn't answer any of my messages... What was I supposed to think?"

Good question, lousy answer: "That I was trying to figure my shit out!"

We stand there, looking at each other over the vast expanse of a dusty floor, our clothes rumpled but not by each other's hands. The last time he was here, I had him to myself for a little while. His hands on me lit a fiery path and I almost - almost - dragged him to bed. I'm sure he wouldn't have protested. Part of me regrets the missed opportunity, especially since it looks like he might have moved on already. If so, I've gotten exactly what I deserved.

"Gail," Taylor says, as if reading my mind, "is just a friend. We started working for Grey around the same time, we know each other pretty well..."

"I hope you'll be very happy together," I say, keen to stop the long enumeration of another woman's merits. I'm sure she's lovely. I just need to be alone with my grisly movies for a while.

Taylor shakes his head. "We're not together."

"What?"

"We're not," he repeats, "together. I was with her tonight because I needed someone to talk to; I was trying to figure out what it was I did that made you run. I thought it might be that I'd moved too fast, or that you were having second thoughts about Christian, but Gail said..." He hesitates, as if he's less than certain he should be sharing so much.

I feel myself moving forward, as though tugged by an invisible tether. "What did Gail say?"

"That I should be patient and that you'd let me know what was going on when you knew yourself."

"Smart woman, that Ms. Jones of yours..."

"She's not my-" His protest is lost under the force of my kiss. I choose to believe him.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: One more to come after this. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed!  
**

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**Chapter nine**

The click of a key in the door cuts me off mid-stream. Taylor doesn't get to hear the end of my chat with Christian; perhaps that's for the best. "That would be Kate," I murmur. "Do you want to, erm..."

"I'll make another pot of coffee," Taylor answers, squeezing my fingers. He's standing in my kitchen in a wife beater because I've confiscated his shirt to wear over my PJs. It smells of him, clean sweat and musk and a faint hint of deodorant. Just like my bed sheets.

"I'll go say hi." My legs feel pleasantly weak as I stand. I find Kate inching her way to her room wearing last night's clothes, her eyes still heavy with sleep. "At least tell me you didn't drive home."

She jumps, startled. I don't know why; this isn't the first time I've seen her slink home after a hookup. "I took a cab," she whispers. "Don't talk so loud, okay? I have a migraine from he-oh!" Her eyes widen as she glances over my shoulder.

"Good morning," says Taylor. "Coffee or aspirin?"

Kate's too stunned to answer, so I do it for her; I know her well enough to guess she doesn't want pills when she can drown her headache in bitter brew. "So you two made up, huh?" She finds her voice just in time to tease me. I'm not surprised.

"Go grab a shower and I'll tell you all about it."

"In detail," Kate specifies, grinning from ear to ear.

Taylor's waiting for me in the kitchen. "Time for me to go?"

"Only if you want to." But I do my best to sway that decision by sliding into his lap, my thighs on either side of his. A pleasant heat thrums beneath my PJ bottoms when Taylor grasps me by the hips. I imagine his palm must be stinging something awful. "I had fun last night," I volunteer, "you're pretty good with your hands."

"So I hear." I like him smug; I like that he handles me with care when we're in the bedroom and doesn't step all over me when we've got our clothes on. "Are you going to tell Kate what we did together?"

_Together_ has a nice ring to it. I smile. "Yes. Unless you don't want me to." I'm reminded of Christian's rules, his NDA; I've signed no such contract with Taylor.

He shrugs. "I'm too old to feel embarrassed."

"-but you don't want to be around for the girl talk," I add on his behalf. "Okay, okay. You're free to go. Wait," my fingers seize against his shoulders, "are we still on for tonight?" It was a tentative offer I made last night right before falling asleep. I'm not even sure he remembers.

"Nine o'clock okay?" He does remember. Relief washes over me and I breathe a little easier.

"Nine o'clock sounds perfect. I'll be there."

I wait for Kate to finish her shower while helping myself to her newest bottle of nail polish. Red isn't my color, but I think I could pull off aquamarine-with-sparkles. The clock on the bedside table tells me I have another twenty minutes before I need to jet out the door. Plenty of time to indulge.

"Someone," Kate announces, "had a good day yesterday." She flops down on the bed beside me, nearly toppling the polish onto the sheets. "Tell me everything." She really should be careful what she wishes for, although I suppose I'm partly to blame for keeping things so close to the vest until recently. If I'd known it was this much fun to shock my best friend, I'd have started making up lovers and boyfriends to compensate for the absence of any real ones. I've read enough romance novels that I can account for ten Darcys and eleven Mr. Rochesters - and one Colonel Brandon, as it turns out. Kate heaves a breath, as though coming up for air, and stray blond strands flutter around her cheeks. "I think I could use another drink."

I level a long, disapproving glance at her. "It's seven fifteen on a Thursday morning."

"Hair of the dog!" she protests, throwing up her hands. She doesn't mean it; I know that for sure when she only rolls over, tugging the towel up to cover herself. My libertine roommate has her limits. "And here I thought dating Elliot would be complicated..."

About that: "Did I make things difficult for you two when I broke up with Christian?" I've been meaning to ask; tempting as it is to see my romantic entanglements as the be-all, end-all, Kate's had her fair share of heartache all through college. I want her to be happy and settled and at peace - even if is with one of the Grey children. At least she picked the one without emotional scars.

Kate looks a little sheepish. "Well, if I'm honest I seriously thought you were going to patch things up, get married and pop out two-point-five kids." She shrugs. "I wouldn't mind having you for a sister is what I'm saying. But it looks like you've got your sights set on Taylor, so..."

"You'll settle for a BFF?"

She laughs. "As long as you're happy, Ana." I hear what she isn't saying: my relationship with Christian isn't enough to drive a wedge between her and Elliot - or between the two of us. It's a relief. I choose to believe her. And though she beats a pretty strong apropos, I don't give details about what Taylor and I got up to last night. Tempting as it is to share every kiss and every sigh, I make the choice to keep the experience to myself. Part of me knows this is a rebound thing - what else can it be, after the short-lived, cataclysmic face-off that was my relationship with Christian - and I'm terrified of what that might mean if I decide Taylor and I aren't really the best fit. He's a good man and I enjoy spending time with him; is that enough?

Despite feeling a strong urge to drag my feet, I don't dally on my way to work. I'm in the office by eight, long before Mr. Hyde arrives with a cup of coffee and a manuscript under the arm. Our greetings are frosty but professional. I haven't forgotten last night's conversation and I want him to know that; I won't be pushed around.

Hyde calls me in around lunchtime, the dregs of his coffee still loitering in the paper cup on the desk. For some reason, I notice that before I catch sight of him sitting stiff and formal, his hands joined before him loosely. "Have a seat, Ms. Steele."

I'm glad for the invitation: the joints in my knees feel like they've suddenly turned to rubber. I wonder if I'm about to be fired as a kind of preemptive strike to dissuade Christian from his corporate takeover ambitions. It's horrible to think it, but suddenly I wish I'd recorded our conversation last night so I'd have some kind of proof to show Hyde that there's really no need to get rid of me, not on those grounds. I'm a hard worker; I've only been here two weeks and I haven't made any glaring mistakes. He has to give me another chance.

Mercifully, my lips remain unmoving.

"It occurs to me," Mr. Hyde says, "that I may have been out of line last night." The words seem to take a lot of effort. I don't offer to absolve him of his guilt. Hyde clears his throat. "I'd like to apologize for the things I said. Your personal affairs have no bearing on your professional performance and it was wrong of me to cross that line." He doesn't seem impressed with my silence. "That's all. You can go back to work-"

"Two points," I interject. "One, I spoke with Christian even though we're no longer dating and it was extremely uncomfortable for me to approach him on the subject of SIP's future. I did it because I like my job here. I did it because I don't want things to change."

Hyde has the good grace to take it on the chin. "What's the other point?"

"I won't report our conversation to HR." The thought crossed my mind this morning, while talking to Kate, but I didn't know how to pass him the message until now. I watch his eyes widen fractionally as I rise to my feet. Last night's excess has to be nipped in the bud. If it escalates, he should know I'm aware of the options available to me. "I think I'm going to grab a sandwich. Can I get you anything?" I ask on my way out.

Mr. Hyde looks a little bit like someone ran over his pet. "No... no, thanks. Oh, Ana?"

I tilt around the door frame. "Yes?"

"I read that manuscript you liked so much." Mr. Hyde holds my gaze. "Not bad."

"Think you'll publish it?"

"Needs a little work, but..." He nods. "Yes, I think it's a possibility."

_Score one for the young, clueless graduate_, I think. It's about time things started going my way.


	10. Epilogue

**AN: Thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback, for reading and reviewing. I'm grateful to you all for sticking with the story (and the unconventional pairing). Stay tuned for a Medieval take on Fifty Shades, this time with a more canonical pairing!  
**

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**Epilogue**

Taylor tests my restraints before I'm permitted to stand. His hands are gentle but purposeful and I don't get more than a hum of approval to reassure me that I've done well by keeping still for so long. Here is proof that if I want something badly enough, he'll find a way to give it to me. Leather, he told me once, isn't his thing; he prefers metal or rope, the latter of which he knots with careful intent only if we have a couple of hours to spare. I prefer the leather; I enjoy the way it slides against my wrists and ankles, the sharp bite when I struggle - mostly, I enjoy the way he reacts when he comes over and sees me wearing the collar, D-link hanging loose in front, ready to be hooked on his finger as he draws me in for a kiss.

He takes me like that, my back against the wall and my hands locked together. His biceps tighten as he holds my hips; it's just as well he's so strong, because usually by this point I'm too dazed to be much help. I like when we finish like this. He's been hard since he got me off with the vibrator twenty minutes ago, his skin flushed and glistening, his fingers just this side of too rough. I try to contract around him, to pull him into me as his thrusts lose their rhythm, but I can't. I settle for urging him on with my lips against his neck, worrying the bite I left there last night. Taylor shudders, driving hard and fast into me - and then stills.

It's long moment before he sets me down, his body still pressing me into the wall, his lips at my temple. I feel undone, unfettered for all that my wrists are bound and he's the one who holds the key to my release. He kisses my hair. "You're amazing." I take the compliment with a grin and a quiver. It's not the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, but knowing I've pleased him means more than any cheesy love poem.

Later, after he's freed my hands and we're settled comfortably in bed, I watch his chest rise and fall, his nostrils flaring. The adorable little crow's feet at the corners of his eyes are deepening by the month; I think they give his face a great deal of character. I burrow closer against his side. Submissives aren't the only ones who need a little tender care in the aftermath. "On a scale of one to ten," I start.

He cuts me off: "twenty-seven."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!" I protest, pinching his nipple between thumb and forefinger. I like it when he laughs, when he's happy because he's made me happy.

The mattress springs squeak as he turns to face me. "I liked it very much. Especially when you were doing all the work." I can't tell if he's kidding; it was my idea to have him kneel above me once he'd bound my wrists. I'd seen it done at the club and it looked like something I'd be good at. I was. Taylor reaches for my collar.

"Wait. Can I wear it for a little while longer?"

He doesn't like me sleeping with it on, afraid I'll choke in my sleep. We've had this argument before. "It looks good on you," he tells me, backing off. He trusts that I know what I'm doing, which may be more confidence than is warranted. I don't tell him that.

I still go to the club sometimes: with Taylor or by myself, depending on the mood. He works nights from time to time, depending on the assignment, and if I've had a bad day I need some way to wind down that doesn't involve getting drunk at home and calling his cell to complain about my boss. The club is my safe haven. I'll only participate if Taylor is with me, but Steph is there to entertain me with gossip even if he's not. She's never short on stories about fellow patrons and somehow she always knows who's dating whom, who's just there to mess around and who I should steer well clear of.

"You're thinking very loudly," Taylor mumbles, stroking the wings of my shoulders. "Everything okay?"

"I'm not dropping," I answer, because I know he worries. He always will, even if we switch it up sometimes, even if I'm the one to ask for the more adventurous roleplay. I'll never stop being the girl he watched leave Christian's penthouse in tears; I've gotten used to our shared history playing a part in this relationship. "There's something you should know." I brush the hair out of my eyes as I roll over onto my back. This needs to be said and it won't happen with Taylor in my personal space, all inviting and warm like a human furnace.

He waits me out. The downside to sleeping together every night is that I've revealed all my tells; he knows me better than Kate by now. I sigh and blur out: "Christian was at the Ruby the last time I went." That was two nights ago and there's been plenty of time for me to tell Taylor about it.

Pillow talk's probably not the best way to bring up my ex-boyfriend - and his ex-employer - but Taylor being Taylor, he won't let me mull it over for long. "Who was he with?" We've had _the talk_ about Christian's past already, both of us skirting around the specifics so as to protect his wretched trust. I know now that some of his previous submissives left in similar circumstances to my own pitiful breakup. I know that others suffered worse. His record isn't nearly as clean as he pretends. I also know that we were all chosen to mend something that was broken inside Christian many, many years ago; that it's not love he minded from us, but the sense of obligation that tends to develop in any committed relationship. Apparently it reminded him of another woman who wronged him. The more sinister details I refuse to consider when I'm cocooned in Taylor's bed, his collar around my neck.

"No one," I tell him. "He came alone and he... he got a room upstairs with Taro."

"I thought Taro did only-" I watch realization dawn across Taylor's face. "Oh."

"Yeah. Steph said he's come by before. Always alone, always looking like he's afraid of getting jumped." Part of me wonders if he's been coming by the club to look for me, but I know that's silly. He has my number. He can call if he wants to meet up. Or he can answer my text messages. The rest of me knows full well that he's no longer my responsibility.

Taylor shifts to lie on his belly, head pillowed on his arm, his free hand lazily playing with my hair. "He'll be okay."

"You keep saying that about him," I grumble. "Did you read his future in his palm or something, Taylor?"

"Or something." His hand cups my cheek. "When are you going to start calling me Jason, Miss Steele?"

I grin. "That depends. When are you going to start calling me ma'am again?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I did have this fantasy about Kevin Costner in Bodyguard..."

The rest of my quip is lost to the warm pressure of his lips on mine. We're too wrung out for more, but I know he'll be at my side tomorrow when I wake up in the morning and I know he'll kiss me before I leave for work. And tomorrow night, we'll go back to my place and revert to our baser natures all over again. One year on, I think I could've done a lot worse as far as a rebound; I don't regret any of it.


	11. Missing Scene

**AN: So this happened. Taro/Christian, kind of one-sided slash, M rated, warnings for bondage, D/s, internalized homophobia and bad language.  
**

* * *

**Missing scene**

"Did you have sex with Ana Steele?" It's a startling way to be accosted, but never more so than when a man wearing the suit that could probably cover Taro's rent for a month is doing the asking.

Taro swallows past a mouthful of cheap white wine, doing his very best not to choke. "I'm sorry?"

"Anastasia Steele." With a thrust of his chin that falls well short of being discreet, the other man directs Taro's gaze across the bar to where a pretty brunette is making small talk with Steph, the bartender. "That girl."

"Ah, yes." Taro smiles. "I know her. Why do you ask? I was under the impression she was with a man named Taylor..."

"How do you know I'm not him?" asks Tall, Dark and Handsome. His eyes are steel-cold and unflinching. He doesn't have to try very hard to look like he could pound Taro into the ground with a single phone call; he probably has people on speed dial for that very purpose. That's assuming he's not fingering a pair of knuckle dusters in his pants pocket right now. Jealous significant others sometimes wonder in here thinking they can restore their failing relationship to vanilla bliss; they usually leave disappointed, if not bruised by Teddy, whose job it is to make sure trouble stays outside the club's front door.

Taro wasn't born yesterday. "Because you're Christian Grey," he points out. "Your face is on the cover of this week's _Time_ magazine. I admit I'm a little sad you're not wearing the navy suit, but even so… you're not very subtle." _Or very pleased to be recognized, if the furrow of those thick brows is anything to go by_. Taro files that observation away under _brooding beau_ and doesn't let it ruin his evening. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Christian blinks, looking startled. "I'm not attracted to men" are the first words he blurts out, not even close to an answer. Under the club's alternating lights and the watery shadows of the bar, he actually seems a little frightened by the assumption.

"That's all right," Taro says, shrugging. "I can still buy you a drink."

"No, I mean—"

Taro rolls his eyes. "You don't want to have sex with me because I'm a guy and you're a guy. As I said, it's all right." He doesn't bother concealing a wolfish grin; Grey doesn't seem like the type to freak out at something so innocuous. Appearances can be deceiving. "And if you're here for the other thing, I can provide character references from half a dozen guys who'll tell you that my preference is not a problem…"

Panic morphs into disgust, if only for a moment, and from there it's only a short journey towards ill-concealed interest. Taro watches the evolution in real time, every micro-expression beautifully visible on Grey's pale face. It's practically sinful that a man who looks like him should be in here on his own—although considering the rumors surrounding his relationship with Anastasia Steele, perhaps that's not so unusual. Steph did imply the two of them were almost a thing, but that Grey screwed things up somehow.

Finally, Grey seems to come to a conclusion. It doesn't involve walking away. "How do you..." he trails off, as if at a loss, and swallows in a dry throat. Taro feels tempted to offer him the dregs of his wine, but Grey would probably thumb his nose at the vintage, just like he's done over the past couple of nights with whatever cocktails Steph fixed up for him. He always finds _something _to displease him enough that he leaves after half an hour. Taro can't help wonder what it is that's finally given him the courage to approach the natives.

"How do I… scene with other men?" he clarifies when it becomes apparent Grey isn't about to say anything more. "Surely you don't need me to tell you that this—" a lackadaisical hand describes the club around them, the more-or-less well-dressed patrons and the occasional scenes of decadence just barely visible in the darker corners of the room, "—doesn't have to be about screwing?" The suspicion in Grey's eyes says otherwise. He's far from convinced. Taro sighs. "I see... How many doms have you had?"

There's visible bristling involved when Grey answers, a peacock unfurling its many-colored tail: "None." He could leave it at that. No one's prompting him to elaborate. And yet— "There was a woman. A long time ago."

Taro swivels his chair. He can see where this is going, even if Grey is still pretending otherwise. They've left the subject Anastasia Steele behind a couple of minutes ago; doesn't look like they'll be coming back to that again soon. "Okay." Taro loops a finger in Grey's belt loop. "Tell me, Christian, do you know what you like?"

Sometimes it's better to be upfront about these things. Taro is some fifty percent sure he's going to get decked anyway.

Grey surprises him. "Yes," he breathes, the word nothing more than a low, struggling exhale. Still, it's an acquiescence, even if those broad shoulders are stiff with tight-laced tension as it spills out of him.

"And do you know what you want from me?"

"Yes." Grey's eyes are downcast. "Whatever you did to Ana."

Taro gives him a little shake to catch his attention, as much as he can manage with only a finger hooked in his belt. "With," he corrects. "Not _to_. Let's go upstairs."

"Why?" Grey's voice has lost all trace of urbane polish. This is the man beneath the thin veneer of civility speaking and he isn't at all comfortable doing Taro's bidding.

"Because you look uncomfortable out here and that, in turn, makes this very unenjoyable for me." Taro slides off the barstool, trusting that sheer proximity will make Grey retreat. He isn't wrong. "Don't worry, the doors don't lock… plus, I think you could take me in a fight." If he's been hoped for a glimmer of a smile at that, then he's only left waiting. Grey swallows hard and turns away—not for the door, but to lead the way upstairs. He settles the price of the room without offering to split it with Taro. Probably for the best; it may give him a sense of security to know he's gone up by choice and Taro is close to skint as it is. Working tech support for a small firm with offices south of the city doesn't exactly make for a lavish lifestyle.

He watches Grey enter with shoulders hunched and brows furrowed. His posture doesn't adjust as he slips off his jacket and hangs it from the door. He seems uncertain about taking off the rest, but would do, most likely, if Taro were to let him: "Some people need pain in order to go down," Taro muses. "Is that the case with you?"

"No," Grey snaps. He winces at the sound of his own voice, some remnants of his training castigating the harsh denial. "Yes… I don't know."

Taro proceeds as if he didn't hear him: "Others need to be restrained." There's a small cabinet by the bed; it holds few toys that can be used for penetration, for sanitary reasons, but those reserved for impact play are more easily shared between parties who came to play at the Ruby. He can hear Grey's pacing still as the doors creak open and turns just enough to let the other man see over his shoulder. Floggers and whips would help clear his head, but they're just as likely to send him running out the door. Taro sets aside the notion; this may have started as a challenge, but he isn't cruel dom and he's never scened with anyone for another reason than wanting everyone involved to have a good time.

He chooses the coil of hemp rope in the end. "If I put this around your wrist and ankles..."

Grey doesn't let him finish: "Yeah, you can." He seems less than sure when Taro turns to face him. "I. I think."

First timers are often anxious, but it's rare to see a man like Christian, who has thoroughly sown his wild oats and made a name for himself as something of a lothario in the tabloids, actually show signs of unease. Taro isn't exactly built for the role; he could never force Christian to his knees if Christian doesn't want to kneel; the scar on Taro's neck may give him a little street cred with the strong army types who sometimes come into the club looking for the kind of fun they can't have with hookers or girlfriends, but it's the remnant of a playground accident, nothing more. It's never a good feeling—to excite and titillate is one thing, to intimidate comes too close to scaring someone. Even Grey and his he-said, she-said with Anastasia Steele doesn't deserve that.

Taro leads them to the bed that sits empty and prominent in the centre of the room, nudging Christian until he drops down. "—and then," he goes on as if there's been no interruption, "there are those who need a harder push." The rope is smooth and sturdy between his hands. He loops it around Christian's wrists once, twice, knotting and threading the ends along his forearms, over his shirt sleeves. "There's no one-size-fits-all scene… I assume your woman taught you that."

"Don't," Christian hisses, voice shaking just a little, "don't talk about her."

Something about the way he says it tells Taro not to pry. "All right," he relents. The cord comes around Christian's shoulders to wrap around his midriff. It isn't kinbaku; it isn't even Taro's finest work, but Grey's breath catches anyway, eyes drooping shut. Taro pulls him back: "What about Ana?"

"What about her?"

The rope criss-crosses over Christian's belly, as far down as Taro can reach with Christian still seated. "Lie down for me," he instructs. As for Ana— "What did she teach you?"

Christian snorts even as he obeys. He holds his hands joined overs his chest, as if by moving them as little as he can, he'll manage to hide the effect this is having on him. Taro lets the illusion stand; Christian is still trying to keep it together. "You have the wrong idea, pal. Ana was _my_ sub. Not the other way around."

Vehemence suits him. In the boardroom, in high octane talks that shape Seattle's economy, Christian is probably very good at telling the likes of Donald Trump where to put it. Strange that he should cling to the same mask when he's wrapped in rope, with a stranger doing the tying. Taro slides down to the floor to finish binding his ankles. "And her being your sub means you can't learn from her?"

Christian's silence is just this side of troublesome. It draws Taro's gaze up before he's finished tied the last knot. "She…" Christian clears his throat. "She didn't do what she was supposed to. I couldn't teach her, so… she left me."

Probably something Taro shouldn't have brought up, then. "Sore spot?"

"You have no idea," Christian snorts, a long way from mirth. "Unless…"

"No, she didn't breathe a word. She's not that kind of girl." Taro's deft hands help Christian onto his side and bid him draw up his knees. When he's finished and Christian is in the right position, Taro threads the long end of the rope that dangles from Christian's ankles through the overlapping chords along his spine.

Rather than acknowledge his current state of powerlessness, Christian only sighs. "No. No, she's not."

"What gets you off, Christian?"

_That_ gets his attention, neck craning to catch Taro's gaze. "I'm sorry?"

Gay panic at its finest, Taro thinks with a sigh of his own. "About playing at being someone's dominant," he clarifies: nothing like fear of being treated as he treats women to get the wheels in Christian's head spinning fast. "What gets you off, other than having a woman at your beck and call... which, let's face it, most men with your wealth and possibilities have already figured out how to do _without_ delving into BDSM." Taro rests a careful hand on Christian's head, leading him back down to his former position: facing away, curled up into a ball, helpless because he chose to be. "Is it the trust? The challenge—"

"I like being in control," Christian whispers, so soft Taro almost misses it.

"Do you?"

"Yes," the other man says, a little stronger this time. "I'm in charge; they listen to me and do as I say. If they disappoint, they know there will be consequences." It sounds like something he's rehearsed before, possibly while staring at himself in the mirror.

Taro strokes his hair. "So it's just another extension of your professional life? I'll be honest with you, Christian… it sounds exhausting."

"Don't talk like you know me."

He may be tied up and virtually helpless, but Christian is still one of the youngest billionaire entrepreneurs in the country. Taro can let him win this one. "Apologies. You're right. I don't know _you_… but I do know your _type_."

"And what type is that?" Christian asks, squirming against the tight clasp of his bonds. They won't give; there's a certain amount of foolish bravado involved in the act for someone to let Taro go this far on a first scene. Whatever Christian is trying to prove, he's doing a lousy job of it.

And it has to get a little worse before it gets better.

Taro doesn't stop his slow, gentle petting. "I think you're type of submissive who's in denial about his nature. You're drawn to this lifestyle, but you've been trying to mold yourself into a role you think best fits your situation in life. Money isn't an issue, so you shower your partners with gifts and attention… you try to impress upon them the dynamic you wish you could find for yourself—except there comes a time when you can't play the game anymore. So you find a reason to reject them and start the whole cycle all over again.

"It gives you the illusion of being hard to please when what you're really doing is looking for the wrong outlet." Taro lowers his voice an octave: "I know because that's how I used to do it. Only, for me, it was the other way around. A while back, an ex introduced me to bondage; he wanted a submissive who could take pain, so I got it into my head that if he trained me, if I was really good for him, I'd be able to satisfy him the way he needed me to." The memory draws a fond smile, one that Christian likely can't see, if he's even listening. "He was decent, in the end. He realized I'd always top him from the bottom as they say, because that's where I belonged. We parted ways amicably and I started trying my hand at wielding the crop for a change."

"And?" Christian mutters, proof that he hasn't dozed off in the meantime.

"And… here we are."

Christian seems to weigh this, and his voice is strangled when he insists: "You're wrong about me."

"That's always possible." Though whether he's wrong about the gay thing or the sub thing is another matter. Taro can't claim strong feelings about it either way; he has a handsome man at his mercy for the hour. There are far worse ways to spend his time.

"I'm not a sub," Christian grinds out, jerkily ducking his head to escape Taro's caresses. He can't get very far with the ropes restraining him.

"It's not a label, Christian. It doesn't mean you're _lesser_ if you enjoy being on the receiving end..."

But Christian isn't listening: "I don't buy that you're a dom, either," he snarls. "How could _you_ keep a sub happy... what do you make, twenty-five grand a year? Probably live in a shitty apartment with a roommate—that's _if_ you left your mother's basement, you goddamn jerk—" He breaks off when Taro's hand knots in his thick hair.

"Careful with that tongue," Taro warns, perfectly calm, "or I might gag you." There's a real danger in using force with a man like Christian, but no denying the way he flushes as he struggles, even once it becomes apparent he won't be getting anyway. Taro doesn't let go. "I'd like to think the partners I've had didn't see me as a meal ticket. It's an old fashioned notion: that they like me for me. Granted, I top them in bed or I feed them by hand and have them spend a night at my feet, but I'm _not_ their sugar daddy. If I were, how can I be sure they're with me because they enjoy what we do together—because they _want_ it—rather than the extravagant gifts they get for putting up with my kinks?" Christian bucks against his hands, red-faced and gnashing teeth. "Relax," Taro sooths, "just let it happen."

"No, I—I can't. I'm not—"

Taro wraps his free hand around Christian's upper arm, the better to keep him from doing himself an injury. It's a close thing, with Christian's bicep pulling taut beneath his hold. "This doesn't make you gay, Christian. It doesn't change who you are." He may as well be talking to a wall, for all the attention Christian seems to be giving him. Taro's fingers tug on his hair, hard enough to elicit a moan. "It's okay. You can touch yourself if you need to."

"Fuck you."

The wild look on Christian's face isn't enough to put him off. "I thought you weren't interested," Taro retorts sharply.

"Fuck, just," Christian's grey eyes find his, "just let me go."

It's not the right way to go about this. "You know the green-orange-red code, right?" Taro waits for the nod. "Then you know that if you need to safeword out, you say _red_."

"Let me _go_." Christian rears again, a wild horse determined to throw off its rider.

Taro bites back a sliver of unease. "Christian," he hisses. "Do you understand your safeword?"

"Yes."

The burden on Taro's shoulders shifts instantly. "Okay… Okay, good." He can focus on what matters: giving Christian what he needs. "I will free one of your hands, but that's it... you can touch yourself. You have my permission."

No sooner does he reach for the ropes that bind Christian's arms together that the ugly snarls return full-throttle: "Fucker. You fucking—son of a bitch..." Some people need pain to get to this point, others do it by punishing themselves. Taro doesn't judge. He traps Christian's left hand across his chest, holding it there by the rope rather than the clutch of his fingers. In truth, it feels like Christian may be tempted to break his.

"That's it," Taro murmurs. "Easy now."

It happens in the tight cradle of Christian's hips, without Taro seeing more than the jerky motions of his wrist as he works himself to orgasm. If Christian were listening, Taro might tell him it's not about sex, or about sex with another man; that what did it for him is the sense, however fleeting, of someone else taking control. But Christian is already too far gone for words. He shudders as he comes, eyes scrunched up tight and his limbs quivering with the bone-rattling force of his climax. "Fuck," he swears, less of an invective and more the shape of pleas he can't otherwise utter. "Fuck—"

"You're all right," Taro tells him. "Just breathe. You're okay. You did so good, Christian…" The hand in his sweat-matted hair never stops stroking, not even when Christian's lips push out a garbled moan. "What's that?"

The slurred pant comes again, a little louder this time: "Thank you."

"You're welcome." It's all Taro can think of to say, his supply of insightful platitudes exhausted, his hands aching from holding Christian still as best he could. Some of the wrinkles in his clothes are Taro's doing. They couldn't be helped.

"This won't happen again," Christian adds, dazed but already sounding more like his old self again.

Taro loosens the knot at his ankles. "I know." The ropes fall away. There's nothing to be done about the damp patch on the front of Christian's trousers. He watches the other man stand, the mask of rich, all-powerful lothario still a little off-kilter but struggling to resume its proper place. "Do you have someone waiting for you at home?"

"What?"

"In about thirty minutes, you're going to drop pretty badly." Taro shrugs. "I'd rather you weren't alone for that."

What else can the mighty Christian Grey answer to that, except: "I'll be fine." He never disappoints when it comes to getting in his own way. In a few seconds, he's going to walk out, as proud and confident as he was on his way in; he'll no longer be Taro's problem.

"The least you can do is buy me a drink," Taro hears himself say, coiling the rope tightly upon itself.

Christian shrugs his jacket on, over the wrinkled shirt. "Is that so…"

It's a mistake. Taro considers backing off while he still can: the puzzle that is Christian Grey is too much for one man to solve. He slides the cupboard doors shut.

"I still haven't told you," he recalls, "if I slept with Anastasia."


End file.
